July 06, 2002

"I mentioned our need to sell 'usd bdies, usd sls, 'special' toys, bgfts, yetis, etc.' It ended up that I had to call a supervisor from the Times and fax her a list of all the animal bodies we would be selling so she could ensure that none of them were threatened or endangered... I just made one up (in the end, the cacophonist who promised to bring the carcasses never showed up anyway). The Times eventually did carry the ad, which mentioned no animal bodies but did mention clowns and yetis."

July 05, 2002

I was talking to RageBoy one day this week when he said one of those things that gets me thinking. This time it was: Why don't we have our phone numbers on our blogs? We've got everything else about ourselves on these things, but no invitation or method for connecting offline. It's like having a business card or website without a phone number on it.

Of course, there were a few more f-bombs in the conversation than I'm letting on, but it got me thinking....

My friends here in Blogaria have been helping me through my lonely journey over the last three months with George in Hong Kong. Missing him, pining even, the end is in sight, as he's hoping to be home on the 15th of this month. Everyone cross your fingers. In the mean time, we all need to blow REALLY hard toward China to give George some air--His CPAP machine bit the dust, and things have gone down hill from there. I hope we both make it through what appears to be the longest leg of this journey yet. Thanks, friends, for sticking by us.

Pick up the bat,
chipped wood offering slivers,
feel them break the skin
cut my palm and the
creases where my fingers bend.
Little bit of blood never hurt
me.

Walk the streets, hungry for
something to make sense,
Find myself there
without knowing when or how,
See the red convertible
parked to perfection, six inches
from the curb, outside
the overdone estate
that son of a bitch CEO
calls home.

The glare off the hood
screams at me from
across the street
alarms going off
in my head
RUN you stupid
shit.

With my bat I have
only wishes and dreams
no one and everyone knows.
I cross the street slowly, take in
the chrome wheels and
flawless finish, glaring,
mocking me.

Before I lift it
high above my head
I don't think: and then what?
I bring it down with the force
of fire, speed of wind,
feel the connection
the windshield give way,
and then
shatter into snow
that rains
on the pavement in
a rainbow tapestry
of joy.

July 03, 2002

This on Bush's latest foot-in-mouth gaffe from George Partington, who shares a first name and blog template style with my husband, George, as well as some good musical tastes. Good to see George3 (better known as double-ya) being honest here on how he looks at things. Ah. Finally. Honesty--that's what the righties have been asking for since the Clinton era, isn't it? Funny how honesty looks on the other side of the isle.

On a related note, I spoke with George Partington today--we had a great chat. George lives here in Atlanta with his family, and once my George gets back from Hong Kong, we're planning to do the hang. "kewl!"

Something knocked on my brain with this. Remember when Internet pubs were cool? (yes, well, I sure do. best time of my life in Tech PR.) I remember the daily emails about which journalist was leaving what pub to go where, leapfrogging other reporters on their quest for tech journalism fame and the ultimate prize: "respect." It took effort back then to follow the writers you liked as they jumped from one publication to the next. Media Map couldn't keep up. "He's *where* now?" was the big question of the day in the agency world.

When journalists change publications, their style goes with them, their personality goes with them, and their quirks go with them. Their good writing goes with them too.

And that brings me to another "Thank God for Blogging." Because as Jennifer makes her way across the country, starts a new job in a completely new city working for an entirely different kind of publication, her blog will remain a constant. Nonsense-Verse is her voice's real home. She can do her job wherever she wants, but we'll know where to find her--find what she really thinks, feels, cares about. And I'm so glad I don't have to go chasing after her. I am getting too old for that shit.

Jennifer, I'll be waiting right hear for you. Have a safe journey. And give 'em hell.

June 30, 2002

There's this little multi-instrumental ditty, from back in the day, called Melodious Funk, which played on my heartstrings when I heard it in 1985. An oldie but a goodie. Recording quality ain't great. Remember, I said back in the day. If you've ever heard him play, you'll be able to decipher it and see those fingers in action. Steve this one goes out to you. (It's all George on basses and drums/percussion).

George graced one cut on the latest Cabo Frio album (uh, that's CD, Jeneane) with a little bass. He would want me to state, for the record, I know, that he didn't write the tune; he just played on it a little bitz. Sample here. Jenna makes a cameo, we think, with her maniacal laugh toward the end of the cut. It was there last time we heard. But since b'ness relations broke off among the guys (again) before the CD found its final resting label, we're only assuming her cackle made it on. Fucking drummers, man.

The no wonder is that Miss Jenna goes completely and utterly manic for what at first glance is little-to-no reason, and then the storm comes. My little weather girl, our personal barometric pressure sensor, a chip off her daddy's block. Both of them climb and slide into another place just before a storm--brewing and stewing and growling, or reeling and squeeling--all before anyone except maybe Channel 2 has a notion that bad weather's on its way.

As soon as the storm hits outside our windows, the storm in them subsides. Sleep often follows, or peaceful play, which was the case today, when just after reaching the zenith of mad-kid antics, she was sitting quietly in her chair, imagining and pretending, with Barbie teaching Little Kellys how to write their names in her notebook. The yawning was unmistakable. It's always the storm before the calm here.

We made it out. After all that. Once the thunder passed.

Headed off to Big Lots, where I hauled home a week's worth of "the stuff no one carries anymore," frozen dinners, her favorite fruit loops, some Gino's Pizza Rolls, and various non sequiturs, which is what Big Lots is all about.

That and a trip through the dreaded McDonald's drive through for a number 9 and a kid's happy meal made the near-meaningless day complete. Got a glimpse of some road rage on the way home--a pickup truck full of hicks going at it with a car full of punks, flipping eachother off and racing down the road ahead of me. Somehow, it felt good. I wanted to follow them, but supressed the urge. Parked the minivan I hate in the comtemporary attached cedar-sided garage, hit the garage door opener to seal us in, threw some frozen stuff in the freezer that lives in our garage, and dragged the rest of it upstairs.

She's dancing now, in the cool new dress-up shoes courtesy of Big Lots, a deal at $4.99. They're all sparkley and plastic, three pairs in their own little cardboard dresser, fancy and loud, bows and flowers. She's off to her room to check herself out in the mirror her grandma bought for her. She walks with airs, clunkiness aside, eyes saying: Ain't I Something?

The hard, hollow, plastic soles clack against the wood floor just now, and I wonder if my head could feel any worse.

that you just don't feel like leaving the house today. Can today be a rest day, sweetie? NO MAMA! I wanna do something. Weary, bleary, trying to keep up -- have you seen the pile of bills on my piano? Air conditioner almost toast, our electric bills have soared to $400 a month. Did I pay it? Who knows? Never mind the credit cards. I'm finding that if I wait long enough, they call me on the phone and take a check-by-phone. You can pay for two or three months at once that way--the current month and the two months previous bills, which are, as I said, sitting on the piano. This, I understand, does nothing for the old credit report. Don't much need one when you don't much leave the house. There's a bonus.

It's not that I don't want to go anyplace today. I spent all morning and lots of last night working on a really boring speech for a really important guy at a really big company. All the while, not caring. Get ready, get set, get numb. That kind of thing takes a lot out of me. Spoiled brat that I am. Thankful to have a job. Oh yes, I know, in this down economy. Mantra mantra, who's got my mantra?

So, what's wrong with not feeling like going outside? Nothing, I guess. Except I have a four year old tugging on my shorts--Mama, let's go to Big Lots. Please? No food in the fridge, I'd better decide to do something today. If someone I trusted would sit on the couch and play with her for five hours, I'd pay $100. Seriously. Just to be able to sleep. Not to go anywhere. Just upstairs, to bed. Send her up to kiss me on the cheek once in a while. Listen to her play cheerfully just outside my dreams. Charge my batteries.

Yes, well, no. Not happening. So I need to get in the frame of mind that says, Yahoo--let's head out into the 95-degree afternoon, open up the mess that is my car, hoist her into her booster seat, wish that the car had been in the garage so it wasn't 130 degrees, realizing, I can't park in the garage--all the stuff I was going to sell in the garage sale that hasn't happened yet is taking up one side.

My mother said to me last month, when my daughter's teacher talked to me about getting her to school late, "You'd better get yourself together. I think you're like a delinquent adult. You're rebelling or something."